


In the Morning Light

by chalicedflowers



Series: 2013 multifandom trope bingo [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Enjolras is a romantic drunk, Enjolras is drunk, Fluff, Grantaire is drunk too, Late Night Confessions, M/M, Sleepovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 21:02:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chalicedflowers/pseuds/chalicedflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is drunk and just wants to talk. Grantaire is the only one awake, and fortunately all Enjolras wants to talk about is how amazing Grantaire is (and how orange his walls are). While Enjolras may be friendly while drunk, neither are sure where they stand come morning.</p>
<p>Written for Zoop's 2013 multifandom trope bingo</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Morning Light

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "in vino veritas" square in Zoop's 2013 multifandom trope bingo

It was finally quiet. The party had ended hours ago but les amis had stayed at Enjolras and Courfeyrac’s flat for a post party get-together. Which invariably resulted in more drinking and even more rambunctiousness than the party itself. Finally, at four in the morning, all but two amis were passed out somewhere in the living room. Enjolras sat on the sofa, Bossuet’s feet in his lap and Joly’s head on his shoulder. The early morning light was just beginning to brighten the room, and this was Enjolras’ favourite time of day. He had insisted that he and Courfeyrac (and Combeferre, before he moved in with Eponine) rent this apartment. The way the early morning sun reflected off of the chrome fixtures in the kitchen and painted the white walls a soft orangey-pink comforted him, made him feel safe and enclosed. And now, still feeling the effects of the wine he had been drinking the night before, he wanted to share his joy in the beauty of his apartment at dawn with the only other person awake.

“Grantaire,” he hissed. He heard a muffled sound in return and tried again, louder. “ _Grantaire_.”

“Please _shut up_ ,” came the groaned reply. “Turns out you can still have hangovers even if you don’t fall asleep.”

“But Grantaire look at my wall. It’s so… orange.” There was a quiet shuffle as Grantaire tried to change his angle in the pile of bodies on the floor of the living room.

“Beautiful,” he grunted. “Now go to sleep.”

“But I don’t want to go to sleep. Look at my fridge, look how bright it is. It’s orangey too.”

Grantaire sighed. “Enjolras it’s four in the fucking morning and I’m hungover. Why are you all of a sudden giving a shit about aesthetics?”

“I always give a shit about aesthi—aesthetics,” he said, stumbling a little over the word. “I like how forget-me-nots look in fields, I like how a flag looks against a sky, I like how your face looks when you laugh—”

“Wait what—”

“—I like all kinds of beautiful things,” he finished triumphantly. There is a pregnant pause.

“Enjolras, you’re drunk. You should go to sleep,” Grantaire says softly.

“’m not even that drunk,” Enjolras protested. All he wanted was for Grantaire to appreciate his walls. The man was an artist, shouldn’t he wax poetic about the reflection of light off the refrigerator doors, shouldn’t he try to recreate the exact shade of orange reflecting off Enjolras’ walls? Unless…

“Grantaire?”

“Mmn?”

“You know you’re amazing, right?” Enjolras asked. “You don’t think you’re bad, do you?”

“What?” Grantaire sounded more awake now, his voice strained.

“You’re an amazing artist. I haven’t seen much of what you do but Feuilly says you’re great and I trust Feuilly because Feuilly is always right about things. And what I have seen is good. You’re really, really good Grantaire.” Enjolras dislodges himself from Joly and Bossuet and crawls over to where Grantaire is lying with Bahorel, Courfeyrac, Jehan, and Feuilly. He grabs Grantaire’s face between his hands and presses his cheeks together. “You are wonderful and kind and I know you just try to be contrary to rile me up. You aren’t as bad as you pretend to be and you’re better than you think you are.”

“Enjolras, you’re really drunk.” Grantaire’s face twisted strangely and his voice was thick, as if he were about to cry. Enjolras didn’t want Grantaire to be sad anymore. He pressed his lips to Grantaire’s softly. He pulled away before Grantaire could react and smiled at him.

“Don’t be sad anymore,” he said. “You don’t deserve to be sad.”

Grantaire opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by Enjolras’ yawning.

“I might go to bed. See you in the morning, R.” Enjolras presses another kiss to Grantaire’s lips before standing clumsily and tripping towards his room, accidentally kicking more than a few amis on his way.

Grantaire presses his fingers to his lips and resigns himself to wakefulness, his thoughts spinning around his aching head. He stays awake and watches as the orange walls fade away to white.

 

The next morning Enjolras is the last to wake up, stumbling from his room with a massive hangover wearing only one of Courfeyrac’s comically oversized sweaters and his boxers. He staggered into the kitchen, ignoring everyone’s greetings and sniggers. He was sure he looked a mess, with bags under his eyes and his hair hurriedly pulled into a top bun. Fortunately there was coffee in the coffee pot and he poured himself a huge mug of the stuff, leaning against the counter for easy refilling. He was nursing his coffee when Grantaire walked into the kitchen, looking freshly showered but as if he hadn’t slept all night. At Grantaire’s deer in the headlights expression Enjolras could feel Grantaire’s stubble underneath his fingers, feel the warmth of Grantaire’s lips against his own, and definitely feel the hot rush of embarrassment that flowed through him standing there in that kitchen. They stood there awkwardly in silence for a moment, heat flooding Enjolras’ cheeks before he attempted to speak.

“About last night…” he started, then stopped. What could he say?

“Look, its fine,” Grantaire said, running a hand awkwardly through damp curls. “I get it. Everyone says shit when they’re drunk and it doesn’t have to be a thing.”

Enjolras froze. “Grantaire I meant all of it.”

This time it was Grantaire’s turn to pause. “What?”

“I think you’re wonderful. We argue a lot but you point out the flaws in my arguments. You can infuriate me like nobody else can, and you’ve gotten under my skin and I like you there. It’s like there had been something missing in my life that I didn’t even realize until you showed up and… you were missing, Grantaire. And I love being friends with you because you’re amazing and you make me better, but I kissed you for a reason. And maybe a part of that reason was because I was drunk, but a bigger part of the reason is that I had wanted to for a while.” Enjolras paused to take a breath, looking everywhere in the kitchen but at Grantaire. “And I get that you’re not interested, but I just didn’t want you to think that I didn’t mean any of the things I said last night. You really are amazing.”

Enjolras was staring at the floor and didn’t notice that Grantaire had moved until he saw his bare toes peeking out from his jeans. Enjolras chanced a look up and saw Grantaire staring at him in wonderment. He fidgeted.

“You always surprise me.” Grantaire said in a strangled voice. “When you help a child find her mother even though you hate children, when you postpone a meeting because Joly has his latest fatality, when you notice the fucking colour of a wall at sunrise. When you kiss me at four in the morning and tell me I don’t deserve to be sad.”

Grantaire’s voice broke and Enjolras could see tears forming in his eyes and takes a risk, leaning forward and grabbing Grantaire’s hand in his own. He looks at Grantaire, asking for permission, and Grantaire nods. They meet in the middle, their lips coming together at last in a soft, chaste kiss in a kitchen full of light.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Best Kept Secret from Bare: a Pop Opera


End file.
